


Through The Glass

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, Hannibal's sensitive nose, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Post-Season/Series 03, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism, featuring the BSHCI plexiglas in a supporting role, what's a little prison voyeurism between friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: Post-Fall, post-recovery, Hannibal has matters well in hand. As it happens, that's the way Will likes it.





	Through The Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Quick ficlet for the One Stringed Melody challenge (yes, we know it's late, we tried our best).

Hannibal was never a slave to his libido before he met Will. He has needs, same as anyone, but his self control has always been his shield. Will's steady, coaxing attentions since they went on the run have been more effective than a well-aimed axe.

Hannibal is thinking about them now, perched on the edge of the bed in his cool white and gold room with his tablet long since timed-out in his hands. By his foot, Will's underwear from last night; an uncharacteristic lapse in neatness, entirely intentional. Hannibal knows if he pulls back the duvet, the sheets will still smell like him: his power, his lust, his moans. He wets his lips at the thought, scenting the air and remembering the way Will had taken both his wrists in his hands where he straddled his hips.

"Did you ever think about me sexually before this?" he'd asked. Always looking to press in with barbs in the tenderest places; the weakest moments.

"Before when?" Hannibal had murmured.

Will linked their fingers and squeezed. "Before we ran away."

"On occasion."

"I thought about you," Will told him, face contorting with a mixture of shame and pleasure from their motions, "when you were in prison."

"When you were married?" Hannibal replied, because he could find tender places too.

His face had twisted up further, the scar making one cheek more hollow. Hannibal thinks about his bared teeth now and swallows at the slow, spreading heat in his skin. He'd looked nearly feral, and Hannibal is not so superhuman as to resist that. The thought of what they'd discussed sends fresh tendrils of fire twisting up his spine. Will's soft voice in the dark, describing what he'd imagined after he'd first seen Hannibal in his cell. It heats his blood like he was listening to it again.

He's still tender in places from Will's touch. Will hadn't been especially gentle, not that Hannibal needs it. He prefers him brutal - he prefers him however he wishes to be.

Mind whirling with touch and sound memory, Hannibal stands with sudden decision and unzips his flies, dropping his slacks to the floor around bare feet, shirt soon joining. He flips the duvet back and crawls back into his bed, assaulted by sensory input. With the smell of Will all around him, he thumbs down his boxers and curls a hand around his thickening cock, weighing the length in his hand and making circles with his thumb. He can't help the smallest sigh of relief.

With his eyes closed and the room dim, it's easy to imagine Will's design; his gaze on him through bulletproof glass as Hannibal strokes himself in his cell, cock jutting rudely from the opening of his jumpsuit. Will wouldn't talk at first, he'd just watch.

The thought makes Hannibal bare his teeth, the motions of his hand taking on intent, shaping himself to hardness with pressing slides. His body feels more sated than it has in forever, but still tense and aching for release. Regardless, he's patient, still seeing Will's laserpoint focus from beyond the glass as he adds a turn of his wrist to his slow, enveloping squeezes. His lips part silently, breathing matching his strokes. The scent of Will seems to thicken in his nose, the back of his mouth, automatically attached to the memory of raking his hands through Will’s sweat damp curls. He opens his eyes.

Will hovers at the foot of the bed, poised as if torn between moving, touching- and staying put. In the warm, early evening light he’s glorious, body made fierce and purposeful from their workout regime and his beard and hair neatly tamed. The golden light filtering through the gauzy curtains paints him like a statue.

Holding his gaze, Hannibal keeps his hand still moving slowly. That's where Will's eyes are yanked to, time and time again.

"Something you find interesting?" Hannibal murmurs. He doesn't ask why Will is home early from his errands. It hardly matters.

"I could ask you the same question. What are you thinking about?"

Eyes on Will's face, Hannibal rocks his palm up over the head of his cock, once then again. "You, coming to see me - coming to _watch_ me." The soft pink glimpse of Will's tongue against his lips brings up another little pulse of fluid. He sees Will’s short consideration, and then his shoulders shift in decision. The game is afoot.

With one adjustment to his body language, Will throws Hannibal back into his cell.

"I'm here. It's just us. Maybe the cameras, but you don't typically feel self-conscious in the same way other people do, do you? You don't mind. On the bed, or standing in front of the glass?"

Hannibal pauses. "I will do as you tell me, Will, of course." He can see it even more vividly with Will's voice in his ears.

"I think I'd like to see you stain that glass."

He nods, spreading slick down his shaft, eyes slipping closed again. "How close do you get?"

"Have to stay behind the line, don't I?"

"Do you?" Hannibal asks softly. He allows his heart rate to increase, the flush staining his skin lightly.

Will tilts his head. "Yes, but I want to be closer."

"What do you do?" Hannibal lifts keeps stroking, watching Will through the Plexiglas wall.

"I tell you when to stop."

Hannibal lets out a slow breath. "That's rather cruel of you, Will."

"You'll do it anyway." He sounds very certain indeed.

Hannibal feels his breath shorten. "Yes."

"Good. Go faster, and when it feels too good, stop."

Typical, really. Hannibal listens to Will's own breathing and strokes long, firm with his palm, a twist at the end. A show for his voyeur. Despite the outline of his own erection becoming slowly more prominent through his slacks, Will stays stoic as he watches. Hannibal just wants a reaction.

He arches his hips, stroking his foreskin up with a gentle squeezing motion and using his thumb to spread the fluid that beads up from his slit. Finally, Will licks his lips again, but he doesn't move. "It's not too much yet?" he murmurs.

"Nearly, Will."

"Slow down for me."

In the fantasy, Hannibal stalls where he's stood, leaning a hand back against the work bench for support. "Tell me what you see."

"I see your legs shaking. You're still trying to pretend you're in control."

Hannibal studies his face. "Empathy, or projection?" he wonders aloud.

"Stop touching yourself," Will growls.

Teeth pinching the inside of his mouth, Hannibal does. He waits, obscenely bared.

"Get your fingers wet," Will tells him, after a moment of silence.

He slides two fingers of his left hand obediently, silently into his mouth, and when he's apparently satisfied, Will tilts his head.

"Finger yourself."

Hannibal shifts, angling his hand. It's not as hard as he'd like to pretend, letting his weight shift partially to his side, facing Will as he reaches behind himself to press. It’s not so hard, not if he angles his shoulder back under his weight. The sun against his back is blissful, casting Will in a bright bar of yellow. The sight of him is almost better than the little electric pulses of nerves under Hannibal’s carefully twisting fingertips.

"How badly," Will asks in a precise tone, "do you wish that were me?"

Despite himself, Hannibal can't resist baring his teeth. "Empathy," he repeats, "or projection?"

Will is too fair to hide the way his skin reddens. "Fuck yourself." It's said like a command. It might not be, but Hannibal isn't taking that chance.

His fingers aren't as slippery as he'd like, but it's enough to ease inside the tight rim of muscle and stroke. He contains his breathing to a strict pattern as his eyes flicker slowly shut. He is, in fact, thinking of Will's fingers instead.

"Hannibal," Will diverts him, voice softening now, "touch your cock again."

He reaches with his other hand. The circuit closing is altogether harder to stay immune to. "Will," he breathes. Molten heat laps at his insides like a tide. It certainly feels too good now.

"Remember," Will breathes softly, "stop if you don't think you can control yourself."

"Will I be permitted to finish today?" Hannibal asks, equally softly.

There's an almost - almost - uncomfortably long silence. He listens to Will breathe and imagines the same air curling over his skin.

"Yes, soon," Will soothes. "Stay with me. What do you see now?"

"You've stepped closer to the glass," Hannibal whispers.

"So I can see you more clearly. Getting wrecked for me now, your hair out of place, making a mess of yourself."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees, keeping his movements steady, hand stroking slick and swift now with his leaking. He feels ungainly and undignified, thighs splayed and hands working at hard angles- but when he risks a look at Will the raw want on his face is a sufficient balm to his ego. Its echo crawls across his skin. Not empathy. Not projection. Just desire.

"Can you -" Will's voice gives out, just minutely - "can you see me, now?"

He can. Blazing intensity on the other side of the glass, eyes cool fire. Closer now, mirroring Hannibal's distance and stance. He raises one hand to the pane.

Hannibal licks his lips. He has no hand to spare. He keeps working his cock, still gently working his fingers shallowly in and out, a sweat breaking on his chest and shoulders now. He can feel Will's stare like a physical weight. Through the glass, he's hyper focused on Hannibal's cock, his face. He licks his lips.

"Stop."

Hannibal heaves a breath. With great reluctance, he does, removing his fingers and letting his other sticky hand hit the coverlet. "At your pleasure, Will."

"That's what I thought."

"You know it is always at your pleasure."

That seems to make his breath stall. Hannibal refrains from smiling. That seldom works in his favor when Will is in this mood. He can feel the tendrils of his emotions creep across his skin. Serious, and spiteful, and thoroughly entertaining; he bites his lip against the urge to reach out and touch.

Will watches it go through him, frustratingly silent, and then he tilts his head. "It must be incredible to you, to suddenly find someone you don't want to disappoint. I bet you've not felt like that a lot in your life. The opinions of cattle, and all that."

"It is incredible," Hannibal gives him the admission, since he knows it's expected.

"Do you like it?"

Hannibal breathes out slowly. "More than you know."

Will's lashes flicker before he answers. "Not true." He steps forward, finally, and perches on the edge of the bed. "Carry on. Come for me."

Hannibal blinks, refocuses, but the cell wall has vanished like smoke. There's just Will, on his bed like he was last night, watching with forced calmness. He can tell it's forced.

With a slow breath, he wraps his hand around his cock again and presses back inside himself with one purposeful finger, shivering when Will's hand settles on his inner thigh. He won't last long at all, not with Will touching him.

"Go on, slowly," Will urges.

He obeys, hand stroking and squeezing like a loving tease, the first string of precome spilling slow down his fingers, the skin under his hand velvety hot. He feels the corresponding squeeze of Will's fingers on his leg, just barely. His mind easily transfers the sensation to more intimate flesh. He's felt it before, after all.

As his eyes slip shut again, he hears Will make a soft noise. It only adds to the fluid leaking down his cock, making the pass of his hand faster and smoother by a fraction, the finger inside him just barely damp enough, the stimulation almost too acute. He can smell it as much as feel it when his body reaches the point of no return, and he looks up, breaths unexpectedly ragged.

"Will, may I-?"

Will's momentary silence makes him tremble, and then he gives his permission with a nod. With a rush of released breath, Hannibal lets himself spill.

Will's hand tightens, and then relaxes. He pets almost absently at his skin before he stands, going to the en suite to fetch a washcloth, judging by the sounds - Hannibal has let his eyes slide shut again. When Will returns, he cleans Hannibal gently. His hands are careful and not-quite clinical, mirroring the many times Hannibal has done this for him too.

"You're in the cell with me now, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

"It's a life sentence," he replies glibly. Hannibal finally opens his eyes. He notes with a deep, humbling pleasure that Will is smiling. Really smiling.

When Hannibal is modest and comfortable, Will lies down beside him and sets his warm hand over his belly. "Do you do that often?"

"Do I - no."

"Why today?"

"Because of you, my love."

“Last night?”

“Mm. It was unexpectedly stirring to know I occupied your thoughts in even the basest of ways.”

“All ways, I can assure you.”

Hannibal is surprised when Will presses in against his back, nose finding the junction of his throat as he breathes deep, like he finds comfort in his scent alone. Hannibal takes a breath of his own. There's nothing demanding about it, just affection for affection's sake.

"Will," he murmurs.

"Yeah." He sounds wary.

"Kiss me now?"

"Oh." He raises his chin, tentatively receptive when Hannibal leans in, senses straining. Their lips meet, soft and warm and charged with residual heat. It turns wet and longing with swipes of tongues and hard breaths, before it ebbs again. They both exhale shakily when they pull apart.

"Pre-dinner siesta?" Will whispers.

"Yes. Always yes."

It's warm and heady as ever, settling into one another's respiratory patterns. Will's body is solid and warm against him. Hannibal thinks of his cold cot at the BSHCI, and smiles. He will accept this - will protect this. Whatever the cost. It is worth everything.


End file.
